I was in a recovery meeting yesterday, and I got asked to share. The topic was "being grounded." I mused aloud .... what does that even mean? What does being grounded actually mean? And, as it all too often happens in meetings, I answered my own questions in the middle of my share. For me, being grounded is the big fat rock I brought back home from the beach, that sits under my desk so that when I'm working, I put my feet on it to remind me of the beach.
It's walking barefeet outside ... literally, grounding myself to the earth. It's standing on a shoreline and looking out at the horizon, all of the mental stress and cogs in my mind getting a big hit of salt air.
Getting grounded is a primal thing .... to remind myself that I'm just a creature after all, scuttling around the world, doing my best.
After my share I turned to Rocco to see why he had suddenly stopped tearing the place apart .... he was in the middle of doing a poo in his nappy. I whispered, "Mate! Are you doing a poo?" He shook his head, no, like he always does, eyes bulging.
Potty training is a non-event around here. He is old enough to do it, I can tell. He just doesn't want to. Last week I bribed him with a "present" ... some stickers, if he did a poo on the potty. He got excited, ran to the toilet, and shut the door.
"I DO POO MUMMA I DO POO."
And he did .... a steaming pile, on the toilet floor, right next to the potty. I went in and said awwww, mate .... you didn't do it in the potty! He screamed at me that he did, got on the potty, and when he got back up had left the tiniest smidge of poo on the rim of the potty. "SEE!" So, he happily played with his stickers while I cleaned the poo.
Yesterday, I had left his nappies in the car and had to race to get Max so I buckled him in.
I thought it was just a little poo, and could wait five minutes.
I was wrong.
I parked the car, and proceeded to change his nappy. Max quickly got out of the car - wise move.
I had so much to do, errands and work and more work and appointments, all in the one day. I was already manic, in my head.
It was a sticky poo - you know those ten-wipers? Yeah. There had been a blowout .... there was poo on his carseat, at the back of his shorts, on his t-shirt. I stripped all of his clothes off, and there was poo all over him. All over my jeans. I looked down - on the car console, the keys, even my new hairclip had poo on it. The stench was really bad, but I don't even bat an eyelid anymore, just clean up the poo. I'm used to it. It's my job .... poocleaner.
Max stood outside in the rain, gagging and looking in. It was a poo comedy. The car was a mess. Suddenly I had this thought pop into my head:
"You are exactly where God wants you to be."
Maybe I was. Maybe, getting grounded for me in that moment was a poo blowout in the main street of town. I started laughing, and Rocco laughed with me, my little poomaker.